


People of the Sun

by Sandentwins



Category: Taiyou no Ko Esteban | Les Mystérieuses Cités d'or | The Mysterious Cities of Gold
Genre: Atlantis, Gen, Identity Issues, Search for Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 00:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19239745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandentwins/pseuds/Sandentwins
Summary: He's just a boy, searching for where he comes from. Looking for a place to call home, people to call his kin.So to make up for it, he keeps a secret in his heart.





	People of the Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Feet on the ground](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16936446) by [Verse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verse/pseuds/Verse). 



_“So, where do you come from?”_

Even today, Esteban wasn't sure he knew the answer.

Spain would have been his first guess. That's where he spent his life, where he got his first memories from. Barcelona is the place he knows best, for even today he remembers the streets and the corners and the places he likes most. The monastery is his home, and the friars are a bit like his older brothers. 

But even when he was young, he's been asking himself questions. He's always wondered why he was the only child in a community of elder men. When he'd go to town, and see the other children that sometimes accepted to play with him, he wondered why they were so different from him, and why the adults were whispering at his presence. He wondered who were these women who'd comfort his playmates when they fell and scraped their knee, or who'd roughhouse them when they got too rowdy. He wondered why come evening, the other kids all had one or two adults to tell them to come home, to embrace and talk to in excited and happy tones, and how come he was the only one left with no one to call for him. 

He wondered why he was the only one without a “mother”. 

He'd ask questions, of course. But no one could answer. Even Father Rodriguez, whom he always looked up to, couldn't tell him for sure. He'd tell a story about caring angels and pearly gates, to reassure the child's heart, and Esteban contented himself with that, since he couldn't do anything else. 

And then, there was the moon. The little golden moon he wore around his neck, and that he's worn as long as he could remember. He's always felt bad whenever he took it off, and no other necklace could ever replace it. How long has he spent gazing at it, tracing the engravings with his finger, wondering what these odd symbols could mean? How many times did he play with the way it reflected every little sunbeam, turned it into a myriad of fractal patterns that illuminated the old stone walls? Lost in the contemplation of the thousands splotches of light he'd draw above his head, they'd feel to him like a secret language, a code to decipher. A mystery to find out about, a secret to call his own. 

His own little mystery, that he was determined to answer.

~~~~~ 

Sometimes, the old and dusty walls would seem too small for him, and he'd feel the urge to get out of here and do something of himself. An urge he didn't know he could have, for it seemed like he'd spend his life here. But there were days where he'd give anything just to see what the world was like out there. What other places were like, if these sailors' legends were true, if there really was something greater on the other side of the ocean.

And then, his chance came. It came with grief, with confusion, with regret, and with hope. 

He's lost a father, but was promised another in the span of one day. And this feeling only confused him further, and he wasn't sure anymore of what to do. His chance was there, and he wasn't sure about taking it; but perhaps there was no escaping his fate. 

His destiny was there, waiting behind every drop of seawater. And so, he leaped in, and joined Mendoza in this new adventure. 

~~~~~ 

He'd tell Zia about his worries. About what it was like, to not know who you were supposed to side with anymore. About how sometimes, he feared he didn't belong. And she'd understand. 

Mendoza told him that maybe, Esteban and his father came from one of these Cities beyond the ocean. And Zia kept entertaining that idea, of how he wasn't really Spanish, and that she could trust him. He didn't know what to make of it either, and wanted to correct her, especially when she'd start calling his countrymen greedy and evil; but he never did. It kept nagging at him, making him ask all sorts of questions, wondering if he really was like these gold-famished monsters leading the expedition. His people were Zia's enemy, but he felt nothing of the sort. And perhaps it made sense, given everything he's come to feel during his childhood. That sensation of not belonging, of being different, that the people's superstition didn't help at all. 

He started playing a little game. At night, when everything was quiet and no one but the ocean was stirring, he'd close his eyes and think. He'd imagine a country, far away from here, inhabited by people with moons like his own around their necks. They'd have the same golden eyes as his own, and they'd have the answers to all his questions. He didn't know what name to give this imaginary nation; but since everyone insisted on calling him child of the sun more than his name, it felt logical they'd become the People of the Sun. 

And Esteban carried this fantasy in a corner of his head for the remaining of their journey. Somewhere, beyond the ocean, there would be people like him, a place he'd finally belong. A people he could be part of, if they wanted of a Spain-bred nobody like him. But his imagination was clear: no matter who raised him and what language he spoke, he'd always be welcome home. 

Perhaps they'd call him by his actual name, too. But that part, he wasn't too worried about, to be honest.

~~~~~ 

His father. To Esteban, his father is only a distant concept, a faceless being that seemed like a culmination of all the answers he was seeking. Someone like Mendoza, but with more kindness to him, someone who could actually have had a child and cared for it enough to sacrifice himself. Someone good, that he'd imagine the feats and travels of, that he'd wonder about endlessly when no one was looking. 

It took weeks after they first set foot on the New Continent for Esteban and his friends to find someone who knew him. For the first time, he hears the story of the stranger who came seeking the Cities of Gold. 

For the first time, his expectations are broken. 

His father was a wanderer, coming from an even further land. His mother has been tried and killed like a witch on the stake. Esteban has been born in this land, but the people had seen him as a threat. Even the gods of their pantheon had been angry at his birth, so angry that they forced his parents into death and exile. 

And he doesn't know what to make of that. 

His friends try to comfort him, to remind him the story might not be true. But it's all Esteban has, and he has no choice but to admit it is. It's his only known origin, and he doesn't know what to think of it anymore. His family had been persecuted and cursed like heretics, dooming him to never find his home again. And the gloomy implications of such a thing weigh down his heart, and make him think everything again. 

For the first time, he's faced with the idea that his parents might have been bad people. And he hates it. He chases that thought away, deep inside his heart, where he won't find it ever again. He's not a bad person, and his parents definitely weren't. They never chose this, they never wanted to die. They never meant to abandon him.

...or did they? 

This sudden thought came onto him like a gun's blast. And for the first time, Esteban considers the fact he's an orphan with a whole new eye. That day, something within him definitely started breaking. 

~~~~~ 

He watches the children play, have fun in the streets of the little mountain town. They feel so free, in touch with all the nature around them, so different yet so similar to the Spanish children he's also seen playing. These kids also have mothers watching over them, funny little games to play with balls and sticks and hands, sing-songy earworms and nursery rhymes to clap their hands and move to. Maybe some things never change, no matter where in the world they are. Maybe if children governed the world, there would be no wars and conquests anymore, for they would all be playing together these little games that transcended languages and borders. 

Esteban was born here. In a land near the coast, similar to this one in the mountains. If his mother was really an Inca woman, then he was of the same kin as the people who called him a white devil. And he didn't know what to think of that, nor did it really change anything in the way people saw him. He tried to see that foreign land as his own, to picture himself part of these people and their customs, but didn't really succeed. So he gave up on the idea, and accepted it for a mere fact that didn't change anything.

Yet he wondered what his life would have been like, had he been raised in this country. Would he still have been an outcast? Would he still have endured the whispers behind his back and the glances of adults on him as he played with his friends? Would he still have been hoisted up scary heights to summon the sun, following a precious secret that the whole town would know about? The superstitions of the people have forced his parents away; what would they have done to him? Would he have been sacrificed to the Sun God as well, for the mere crime of having been born?

There was still some bitterness in his heart, whenever he'd think about his parents. About what was done to them, and what they've done to him. He knew it was stupid, and maybe even ungrateful...but he couldn't help it. So many thoughts were bumping around in his head, and he needed to do something. He wanted someone, _anyone_ to blame for all that happened to his family. But he didn't know whom to point and accuse, and most of the time he ended up blaming himself and his ability. He hated it, he wanted it gone. He never wanted anything to do with the sun ever again. 

Maybe it was why the Sun God of the Incas has hated him so much that he hid at his birth. Maybe Esteban wasn't meant to have that power. Maybe he stole it somehow. If he could give it back, he gladly would. 

The People of the Sun would never have made him feel that bad. They'd never have made him doubt himself. But they didn't exist, they were all in his head. He had no family, no homeland, nothing but stories and whispers and legends to hold onto. Nothing certain, no known origin. 

Nothing but the Sun Emblem around his neck, and questions in his mind.

~~~~~ 

The man's presence has something strange to it. He's definitely weird, with his golden mask and fancy robes, but Esteban feels like he can trust him. 

They don't stay for long on that little island, and there are so many things going on that he barely takes notice of it; but he spots some familiarity in his voice. A warm tone that gets amused at his and Zia's childish antics as they explore the place and learn its secrets. This man knows a lot of things, and Esteban is sure that if he asked, he could tell him more about the traveler. 

He yearns to know. He _needs_ to know that the Traveling Prophet, the man he understood was his father, is a good person and didn't abandon him. He needs to know whether he survived. And soon he learns that barely a couple years ago, he was there, in this very place. But he didn't stay, and left for a new adventure somewhere else in the world. 

Esteban needs to know. He wants to follow that man, wherever he went. They've got the Golden Condor, it wouldn't be impossible. But the High Priest assures him that there's no way to know, that the Prophet's mission is sacred, and that Esteban shouldn't try to follow him. And the child has no other choice but to obey, and calm his many questions. 

Something is definitely held back from him. The Priest is lying somehow, but he's not sure how. Maybe he's just telling himself that so that his worries can be appeased, his curiosity satisfied. All the answers he's been given so far reek of lies, of doubt and uncertainty, and he hates that he can't do anything about it. 

Long after the first City of Gold has disappeared, he still decides to search for his lost father. Maybe he'll find him somewhere in this vast new continent, and his questions will finally be answered. Someday, he'll know. 

Days turn to weeks. Weeks turn to months. Slowly, his dreams turn to nightmares, and memories turn to heartache. In the middle of all of this, something keeps eating at him, making him doubt. Long after the catastrophe, he remembers the High Priest, the words he spoke, and how warm his hand was. 

He remembers trying to see beyond the mask, and getting the slight hint of a golden gaze looking back into his own.

It makes no sense. It's not logical. But his heart speaks stronger than his mind, and little by little, the conclusion becomes clear in his mind. 

He needs to find Mendoza. He needs to talk to him, and to finally know the _truth_.

~~~~~ 

It turns out the People of the Sun have a name. That name, Esteban came to learn, is Atlanteans.

For the first time, he has a known origin. One that isn't a lie, a legend, a maybe. For the first time, he knows where he comes from and who his ancestors were. And while it does come off as a shock, happiness soon overcomes it. There is a place, and he knows, he _knows_ what it is, and it makes him feel so strange and yet- he's happy, but he's also confused, and maybe a little disappointed for some reason, but most of all confused. For it puts everything into question, and doubts cover his cheer and stab at it like seagulls on a lone crab. 

That's about when Tao starts to resent him, to _hate_ him because of that. Because of who Esteban's ancestors were, regardless of their friendship. And Esteban is definitely lost, and starts to wish he'd never have known. He doesn't know what to do, what to make of the fact he's an Atlantean. He wants to feel guilty about it, but he can't; nor can he feel proud of it either. He just...feels. That's all he can do. 

Yet he still imagines the People of the Sun. He knows he shouldn't, that he should leave these childish dreams behind him. But these made-up people are his one sure value in all the mess that are his origins. 

~~~~~ 

Tao always mentions the people of Mu at the slightest little occasion, so much it's become an annoying recurring joke. Zia compares everything she sees to her own culture and homeland. Mendoza, Sancho and Pedro frequently mention Spain and the wide world of sailing. Even Pichu's favorite catchphrase is all about Tao's ancestors. Wouldn't it be fair for everyone that Esteban could also feel proud of his origins, of where he came from? 

Doesn't he deserve the right to finally answer that question? 

He knows the ages-long feud between Mu and Atlantis is a sensitive topic for Tao, and now for Zia as well. So he doesn't mention it. And he feels a little envious, he wishes he could be openly proud of this origin, despite how distant it feels. But he doesn't complain, for it's maybe better than nothing. It'll be his own little secret, as with everything else in his life. 

But when someone mentions the legends of Atlantis, or compliments his golden eyes, or even when Tao calls his behavior “typical Atlantean”, he can't help but get a little giddy smile on his face. 

~~~~~ 

It's been years since he left Spain. And even today, he wasn't sure of how to answer that question.

As he came to learn, to realize over time, his origins were not that important considering everything he's done in the present. There were many other things he could build his identity with besides his homeland, and he made sure that whoever his ancestors were did not define him as a person. The fact he became such close friends with people who should have been his enemies was more than enough proof he was better than the people of ten thousand years ago. 

Of course, he still wondered whether or not that was the right choice. Whether he was right to discard all pride and live in the present, yet still feel envious of others' patriotism. But that was something he still had his whole life to make sense of, and it was best he gave it more time. Maybe when he's older, and able to reflect on the past with more ease, he'd reconsider his feelings towards it all. But for now, he'd take in his father's advice, and go beyond his bloodline. 

Maybe one day, Atlantis will rise again, wake up from its long slumber in the depths of the ocean. And he will make sure it grows into something he can proudly call his homeland. He will make sure it becomes a place worthy enough for the People of the Sun. Maybe then, his answer will change.

_“So, where do you come from?”_

But that would have to wait a little longer. For now, however, he had a good enough one. One that he decided was worth being part of his identity.

_“My ancestors didn't have a homeland. They were travelers, just like me.”_

And somewhere in his heart, he does feel that pride he's been seeking.


End file.
